


The Scent of Salt and Wood

by Gryphonrhi



Category: Forever (TV), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Raine's Rain challenge, or at least think about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing a perfect stranger in an alley is unusual behavior for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Salt and Wood

**Author's Note:**

> I just reread the _Rivers of London_ books for an MCU crossover I’m writing (no, this isn’t it), and ABC canceled _Forever_ , damn it. Somehow, when Raine issued a rain challenge, this came out. Beta courtesy of Dragon, tarsh, Merewyn, and Springwoof. Mistakes are mine and will be corrected as I find them or am notified about them.

Rain trailed over his hand, soaking the fine cotton shirt under his fingers; the hair curling under his palm and thumb was softer and wetter than the cotton. The rain had chilled both or maybe they were only cold in contrast to Thomas, who felt almost overheated by the kiss that was pressing him back against the brick wall.

Thomas couldn’t quite remember why any of this was a problem, not when the mouth under his was so insistent and the man was bracing him as if he thought Thomas actually needed his cane for support. That steady hand cupped his elbow, the contact almost hot through his own jacket. The other hand had slipped inside Thomas’s Burberry coat, careful of the fabric but warm against his back, stroking lazily along the line of the spine and ignoring the handcuffs secured at the small of Thomas’s back.

The stranger was also chuckling into their kiss, a sound full of uncomplicated pleasure. Thomas’s life had been nothing but complications of late, which might explain why he found himself leaning back into the embrace for one moment more, one last angle of mouth and caress of nape, one final surreptitious inhalation of an herb and salt cologne that reminded him of the open sea.

Then Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale reluctantly drew his mind back to business and pulled himself a few inches away, holding their new position with the hand that had already memorized the feel of the stranger’s head. He glanced down long enough to confirm what his fingers had already told him about the stranger’s tailored coat and suit and made himself say, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, sir.”

Another phrase might not have cut through the lingering fog of pleasure and lust that had surged up around the two of them. With someone else, Nightingale would have had to find a different angle of distraction.

This man blinked, surprised and then faintly embarrassed, cheeks pinking under hair Nightingale thought would have some lighter traces when dry; brown and red, say. “Good Lord. So we haven’t.” He kept his supporting hand under Nightingale’s arm, however, eyes narrowing into something close the same sharp evaluation Nightingale had just deployed. “Dr. Henry Morgan. And you are?” He frowned. “Other than soaking wet from this rain--”

Nightingale tried to wave that off but his new acquaintance said firmly, “No. You’re pale, you’re actually leaning somewhat on that cane, and your breathing is uneven. I think we’d best get you in out of the rain for my apology.”

Nightingale shook his head, drawing on just a little of the power stored in his cane. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said, looking around them to see why this particular site had set off whatever that had been. He hadn’t sensed a _signare_ , only a sudden flare of _vestigium_ loaded with the feel of sunlight, the smell of wildflowers, and a taste of grass and honeycomb. Wound in and through it all had been a surge of desire strong as a spring tide rolling up the Thames. Desire, not just lust, he realized. Odd.

He’d been silent too long, however; Dr. Morgan had leaned in again. To Nightingale’s surprise, it wasn’t just the desire overtaking him again. Morgan studied him intently, his fingers sliding down to rest over the pulse point. “Are you all right? I didn’t think I let you hit the wall.”

“You didn’t, no,” Nightingale assured him, faintly amused that this man was worried about _him_ and more than a little aroused by the hand on his wrist. Thomas sternly repressed old memories of being teased at formal dinners by fingers under the cuff of his shirt.... “I was preoccupied,” he said very honestly.

Another man might have assumed Thomas meant desire; Henry Morgan filtered that assumption and frowned at him. “I don’t have your name, sir, but I rather suspect you must be with the police. May I ask if I’m under arrest?”

“Why would you think that?” That dragged Nightingale’s attention back to work, although he could feel the _vestigium_ beginning to climb around them again. Despite the low clouds pouring heavy drops down on them, Thomas could feel the moon rising towards the center of the sky. Habit told him the moon was almost full -- on May Day night.

That gave him his last clue as to what was likely happening. “We need to move, now, if we’re not to end up arrested for public indecency.”

Morgan’s eyes widened at the new surge of influence, pupils dilating and tongue darting out to lick his lips. He steadied himself admirably, however, and said, “By all means. Which way?” He added, quite determined, “You’re unwell; I’d be remiss in my own duties if I let you go like this.”

Thomas got them moving out and away from the narrow street entrance, murmuring, “Well, now I finally understand why they based themselves here....” Rain fell over them as they moved out of the shelter of the buildings, but it was already dropping off to a soft misting drizzle again. He could smell salt still, probably off the Thames where the Ravensbourne ran in. Probably, he noticed himself thinking, and began to wonder what was askew somewhere.

The surges of sensory impression ebbed as they moved away. Thomas rather thought that his preoccupation with the hand under his arm was his own body’s relative youth reasserting itself, not the _vestigium_ he could still feel surging up to a climax behind them. He glanced up at his companion. “Your own duties? You said you’re a doctor?”

“I am. I’m a senior coroner with the New York City police.” Dr. Morgan added, mostly amused, “It would be easier to apologize properly if I had a name for you?”

Nightingale laughed softly despite himself. “That was very much the equivalent of a formal introduction, wasn’t it? And I think I’m the one who owes the apologies, Doctor. However, I’m Thomas Nightingale. While I am with the Met, you are not under arrest. You’ve done nothing illegal and any court would call that entrapment, in any case.”

“Perhaps.” Morgan kept pace with him and kept a careful eye on how he was moving, too. “I certainly didn’t think it was intended as entrapment. I could wish I had access to my lab, just now. Our blood work would probably tell me what just happened.” He checked his hands, turning them over to examine sides and back as well as palms. “No marks, no odd aches, and I don’t know of any odorless agent that would have left us both thinking that was such an excellent idea that we acted on it.”

Nightingale was smiling faintly at the careful phrasings when Dr. Morgan added ruefully, “Such activity in public is highly unlike me, at least; I rather suspect it’s not usual for _you_ , either?”

‘In public.’ Leaving open the possibility… Thomas dragged his mind forcibly onto work. Again. Regaining his youth was damnably distracting. “No. Like you, I prefer a clean professional reputation.”

Dr. Morgan raised an eyebrow, that soft mouth quirking in a smile that made Nightingale flush and wonder why. “Professional. I see. I’m going to get out my wallet, now. Lord knows it’s too late for an umbrella,” he murmured. He pulled out a very well-made, well cared-for leather billfold and fished out a badge identifying him as being with New York’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

Nightingale looked it over carefully. He had rarely worked with American law enforcement but a careful pass of his fingers over the plastic told him it wasn’t a magical creation. The edges were nicked in places, the laminate cracked along one edge where it swiped through a reader, most likely. Oddly, the badge gave off the same faint impression of salt and wood Nightingale had noticed earlier, this time with a faint trace of tar as well and hints of blood and iron under that. _Tar_? Surely New York methods weren’t that far behind Walid’s best practice?

But Dr. Morgan’s credentials matched his claims and Nightingale could almost see him still sorting known substances and effects against perceived symptoms. If this had been an official case, Dr. Morgan would be both a pleasure to work with and a problem: He had clear eyes and a quick mind that persisted in seeing what was there and trying to fit together a theory that matched reality. In that, he reminded Nightingale of Peter, if Peter had gone into medicine instead of being fascinated by architecture.

Dr. Morgan also had no place in the Met’s command structure and no hesitation about asking, “What can you tell me? Is this something likely to show up in New York, or to have aftereffects here?”

New York wasn’t that far from Pennsylvania, where the American practitioners had based themselves out of a school established by Dr. Franklin. And it wouldn’t hurt for Walid to have someone else with whom to compare notes. Nightingale paused when he realized what he was thinking, only to have Dr. Morgan brace him up, careful not to interfere with the cane.

“Yes, of course. My apologies. Tea first, and warmth; questions afterwards.” Dr. Morgan added ruefully, “I was out exploring, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be a cab if we can get one or public transportation if it’s still running so late. I was restless and wandering off jetlag.”

Nightingale considered him very thoughtfully indeed, weighing his instincts and training against the attraction which hadn’t faded as much as it should at this distance in time and space.... “Jetlag, hmm? Have you never had unexplained cases in New York, Dr. Morgan? Things that made no sense with conventional science?”

Morgan broke stride for a moment; when Nightingale turned to look at him, he’d also paled. “A very few. Usually, science and deduction do very well.”

“And in those rare cases?” Nightingale pressed, wondering now if this had, in fact, been a set-up.

“In the most notable example, I have had a body vanish, leaving behind highly unusual blood samples.” He winced. “We also have no good explanation for why I have a proclivity for sleep-swimming in rivers.” A moment’s pause, then Dr. Morgan finished, “In the nude. Which is, I must grant, rather a problem for _my_ professional reputation. It’s occurred during times of great stress, but nonetheless.”

Meaning it was on public record. No wonder he’d admitted to it now, although that suggested he was going to run Nightingale’s record as soon as he arrived home, as well. All things considered, Dr. Morgan was coping quite well with the night’s events. So far.

“Ah. So if I should suggest that we had run into, effectively, an environmental ghost, the local memory of old events? In this case, the old Beltane celebrations at a long-buried temple of Venus surfaced because we have a conjunction of full moon and May Day.”

Dr. Morgan didn’t break stride for that; if anything, he appeared more intrigued than disconcerted. He merely fell silent as they continued towards Nightingale’s car in the drizzle. Just as Nightingale was pulling out his keys, Morgan said, “In that case, I would have to say that, odd though that explanation may be, it seems more plausible than an odorless dispersal of an aphrodisiac going unnoticed by two men with police experience who were, in fact, paying attention to their surroundings.”

He paused by the Jaguar to admire it, murmuring knowledgeable commentary on the year, model, and engine type even before Nightingale unlocked it. He finished with a simple, “Beautiful. A perfect finish to an unusual night.” He waited until they were both belted in and the heater was attempting to dispel some of their dampness to ask, “ _Are_ you suggesting that’s what happened, then?”

Nightingale braced himself. “Yes. I am.”

Dr. Morgan said thoughtfully, “There are places in New York where, at the right time of day, one almost hears cannon fire or smells clove and nutmeg on a dock that has no ships.” He glanced up. “Among other such things, Inspector...?” He paused for confirmation; when Nightingale nodded that he had the rank right, Henry went on, “Am I right that you believe no apology is necessary? In either direction,” he added more firmly.

“No more than for getting caught up in a cheering crowd for a rugby match,” Nightingale agreed, relieved. “You’re taking this very calmly.”

“It fits all the data,” Dr. Morgan agreed. “However. I may not owe an apology, but that doesn’t tell me if you would want one?” 

The sidelong look that accompanied that careful query showed Nightingale that his companion’s eyes were still bright, his cheeks flushed again. A very good look on him, he thought before he tried to focus on the task at hand again... and realized it was midnight, no crime had been committed, and his lead had been fruitless. There was no reason at all why Thomas shouldn’t pursue this attraction, should he want. And he did want. He was no longer as old in body as he occasionally felt in spirit. Just now, his spirit felt a good deal younger – even young enough to take a ‘no’ gracefully, should one be forthcoming.

Thomas said slowly, “No. I don’t desire an apology for any of this evening. Do you?”

Dr. Morgan took a quick, deep breath, and smiled. “No. I don’t. Well, then. Under the circumstances, I hope you can see your way to providing us both with tea and towels?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas said, trying to settle his mind firmly into practicalities of warmth, and shelter, and whether Molly had an extra room ready in case Henry Morgan needed one tonight. It was rather late, after all....

“Then please, make it Henry. By the time we’re done with those,” Henry said, “we’ll know if the local memory we ran into was simply that strong or if it had a good foundation on which to build. If it should be the latter,” and his smile was both rueful and intrigued, a lovely combination, “then proximity would be quite welcome, on my part.”

Thomas looked down and saw that one hand might still rest on the steering wheel, but his free hand was angled towards Henry, reaching for the comfort of touch, for the warmth of another’s skin, for the equality of their hunger. He untangled Henry’s last sentence easily, amused that a man who worked in the States should speak such excellent and eloquent Queen’s English.

“If the ground’s not so firm in half an hour, I should be able to find you a spare room, Henry. If the interest _is_ still mutual, however, I should be quite happy to let you find a suit to borrow.” When Henry only lifted an eyebrow under water-curled hair, Thomas smiled at him and said, “In lieu of having any interesting etchings on offer.”

“Well, I’m certainly interested in good tailoring.” The appraising look that accompanied that almost put warmth in Thomas’s cheeks; then he could only laugh at their mutual brashness.

Henry smiled back at him. “I think we’ll find something to look at.” He gestured with a hand at the ignition. “I believe you’re driving?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas agreed and started the Jaguar. “Now that I know where we’re going.”

As a possible headquarters for the Faceless Man, this site had not worked out. As a possible new friendship, the evening might have been highly successful. Peter could start tracking old Hellfire club locations again tomorrow. The hunt for their ethically-challenged mages could begin again tomorrow, too.

Just this once… Thomas thought he might take the night off.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:_   
> 
> 
> Dr. Henry Morgan is from the show _Forever_ ; he’s immortal for reasons he knows not why, having been shot, abandoned to the sea, and come back. He has the bullet scar from it – worse than Nightingale’s and probably in about the same spot, come to think of it! – and returns to water each time he dies. He’s about 200 years old and has repeatedly been a doctor, including during World War II. Since Henry first died in the North Atlantic and cycles back and forth between the East Coast of the US and England, Dragon suggested he might be immortal because the North Atlantic saw to it, that in _Rivers of London_ terms, he’s a _genius locorum_. (A local spirit, deriving his power from the locale.)
> 
> Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale comes from the _Rivers of London_ books, and Dragon’s idea worked so well that I just ran with it. Nightingale is over 100 now, also fought in WWII, and began aging backwards in the late ‘60s, to his great surprise. Like Henry, he has no idea why he’s not dead yet. He’s one of the strongest, if not the strongest, mages of the Folly, the nearly-defunct school of British magic, and is still recovering from having been shot in the back and having a lung collapse at the time. I did mention matching scars?
> 
> For the curious: I have a great deal of trouble _not_ seeing Henry as bisexual, primarily based on the flashbacks to his friend and fellow doctor who was diagnosed with tuberculosis. As for Thomas Nightingale, while an intensely private person, I suspect he’s either bisexual or homosexual for any number of reasons, not least that when he first turned up, the POV character thought Thomas was making a pass at him and Peter Grant has an uncomfortable knack for seeing what’s actually going on* even when he thinks it doesn’t make sense.
> 
> * For the _Rivers_ fans who look at me and go, “Lesley!” I can only say, she falls in under the ‘mates’ clause from _Foxglove Summer_ , where there’s always at least one friend for whom you do things you probably shouldn’t, solely because you’ve known them so long and so well.
> 
> Oh, magic terms: _signare_ , the ‘signature’ or distinctive feel of the mage who cast a spell. Think of it as a criminal’s _modus operandi_ that you can sniff, or hear, or otherwise sense if you’re a mage. _Vestigium/vestigia_ is, like the English cognate, a vestige left behind by an event or person. And Peter is Peter Grant, a constable and Nightingale’s apprentice in magic. 
> 
>  Where things go from here, gods only know. When I started writing this, I was surprised by how well these two fit together. 
> 
> Last but not least: Yes. One of the confirmed locations for the Hellfire Club in London is what’s now Brooks Club. However, that site is within earshot of not only the Thames but also Buckingham Palace. It’s also squarely on Lady Tyburn’s patch. This seemed like a _really_ bad idea, and I can’t imagine the Folly didn’t keep a close eye on the Hellfire club to be sure they knew who was trying what. So, this takes place down around Deptford and Greenwich at another location that the Folly knew about, the old site of a Roman temple to Venus where she could have come ashore from the sea. (Temple also invented, although possible, given the layers of history under London.) As to why Nightingale was there? He was looking for the Faceless Man; there are worse ideas for where Faceless might look for power.


End file.
